Relapse
by elever
Summary: Sometimes, Rorschach has to teach Kovacs a lesson. Non-con masturbation, as odd as it sounds. For the WM kinkmeme


**Title:** Relapse  
><strong>Rating:<strong> R  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> Rorschach/Walter  
><strong>Fandom:<strong> Watchmen  
><strong>AN:** For theWM kinkmeme. _Prompt: Rorschach, non-con masturbation. I leave the details up to anon, just as long as it's a lonely, fucked-up Rorschach fucking himself up further._

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><p>It's his own damn fault, Kovacs thinks. There is no one else to blame, and even if he goes back in time far enough to the hidden folds of his memories to find the slut that had pressed him out of her rancid womb, remembers the shitty life she forced him to lead - or even if he goes as far back as to the time when Cain had slain Abel, it's still not good enough an excuse to placate Rorschach. There simply <em>are<em> no excuses, no extenuating circumstances. Things either are or are not. There is no middle ground, there can never be, because it leaves room for compromises and if Kovacs knows one thing, it's that Rorschach doesn't _compromise._

Formulating even the vaguest thought on matters of _because_ and _whys_ and _maybes_mar Rorschach's smooth latex-face with a deep wrinkle of disapproval. His displeasure is so palpable that it translates right into pain, and Kovacs is left yelping, wheezing like a dying dog. His eyes are so tightly closed that he's seeing a vision of violent reds and greens dancing but never touching like phantom lovers.

It hurts. It has to hurt. It's part of his punishment.

Consequences must follow actions, and the execution is swift and merciless, Rorschach's glove creaking as he squeezes his erection harder. It's a warning to stick to the rules they both have set up; and Rorschach won't bear for his burbling reasons, no matter how valid they might be.

Yet still, it does not have the desired effect, it does nothing to soothe the ache in his abdomen, only makes his thighs quiver harder with the accusation pressing down heavily on both their minds. What a sordid creature he is, squirming on the filthy mattress in pain and fear and arousal, the coarse material of the blanket rubbing along the naked side of his stomach. It's like a slap to the face, the reality of what he does. What Rorschach does.

Between heartbeats he wonders if his neighbors might deduct anything from the rusty creak of his bed, from the little gasps he tries to stifle but can't. The wall is thin, in a bad condition, and it's not long until he imagines hearing snickers, the banging of fists against hard plaster, the desultory yell of a man that unmistakably carries venom and insult. It strips away any dignity he might have left and Kovacs flinches at the harsh words he hears, thinks he hears. _Whore. Whore son_. Rorschach's voice is a low rumble, like a landslide, burying him in shame and guilt, but it's difficult to discern from the blood rushing between his ears, through his body, into his hands, his cock and Rorschach stops touching him. Just like that.

It's a simple truth, Rorschach offers him, then, as Kovacs helplessly gasps through the latex, too loud in the small room that his leasing contract calls an apartment when it's just a hole, a fucking hole in a crumbling old rear building occupied by degenerates and cockroaches.

He belongs here.

Rorschach presses him down, into the mattress and he must suffocate, he feels it, choking on the realization and his own sobs; he could have had it all. No doubts, no fears, a true purpose. Forever untempted. Yet adhering to the true principles had apparently posed a greater difficulty to Kovacs than previously anticipated. It had efficiently disrupted their congruous modus operandi, leaving even Rorschach wavering. It's during times like these, that Kovacs's weakness is so much stronger than Rorschach's integrity. Kovacs reacts the only way he knows; Rorschach follows suit. They are both prisoners of habit.

Gloved hands are suddenly at his face, threatening to take it off and leave him alone and cold and aroused. Humiliated. Rorschach is tired and sickened by this display of weakness; he can feel it, unwilling to finish the deed for him. With him.

No better than the criminals, the rapists Rorschach beats up every night. Unworthy of attention and Kovacs doesn't know how to proceed from here. He doesn't want to lose the soft press of latex against his eyes, the bitter salt when he sucks in a breath, the taste of an inverted kiss.

Kovacs promises silently, hands trembling with uncertainty, the leather scratching along his stubble. He shouldn't have, he really shouldn't have. He knows this now.

He won't do it again, he swears silently, if Rorschach would just...

But Rorschach only pets the side of his face in a parody of gentle forgiveness, the movement awkward as it vibrates through his arm, to his elbow, into his shoulder. It's like a minor earthquake, unsettling his foundation and he blinks. Gasps. Feels his body in all probability for the first time in hours, fully conscious.

His pants are around his ankles, knees icy cold while his dick feels like a detached, overheated piece of metal. He groans, but not in pleasure, and pulls his pants up, over his ass and hips, buckles his belt. Sits up. The bed-springs creak horribly. There are wrinkles in his shirt as he smooths it down over his stomach again, tugs it into his pants and stares into the darkness. He waits til Kovacs' body adjusts to the new position, to the fact that there will be no release. The ink pools into a grimace, the muscles under the latex following suit, and he digs his fingers into his thigh. The dull throb makes him angry. Angry at himself, at Kovacs.

He can feel him push at the edge of his mind, lingering, still wanting, still whimpering. It's sickening and he gets up on wobbly knees to use the toilet. Wash away the sweat beneath his armpits and the taste of stale memories out of his mouth. The images are still there, of course, Kovacs is carrying them around like a stigma and Rorschach just has to close his eyes to see them in their embrace, recalling the sounds and the way the woman moaned like the whore she was. He knows Kovacs hadn't meant to witness the scene, hadn't meant to spy like a five year old in front of a keyhole. But he had, had remained in the shadows of the alleyway with his hands down his pants.

Rorschach spits out into the sink and pulls his face over a stubbly chin again. The walls around him gurgle as someone above him flushes the toilet and he wonders whether the reflection in the mirror shows him the female sex or nothing at all.


End file.
